“Do what you want with it”, he says and walks out of the room. His back is to us so we can’t see his face. “Brion”, she calls out after him. But he’s already long gone, somewhere between the front and back of a bloodshot eyeball. We wait another second or so, out of politeness, and then set upon the object like vultures and tear it apart and then flatten it out into a shiny square, which takes some effort because it has been rolled up for so long, this rotating, metallic joint. “It’s like an eyelid”, she says. Someone puts it on a giant coffee table and dusts it with comically big lines of something that looks a lot like drugs, but definitely not psychedelics. The sight of the stuff seems to work everyone up and they want music to wash it down with, but the record player has been sacrificed for the machine. A collective groan fills the room. A stack of records is smashed against a wall. And what’s left is just the staring. And then the staring starts to feel a little musical, or rhythmic at least. And everyone shuts up long enough for it to finally happen.